A Study in Blood
by JHathaway
Summary: Moriarty has been murdered. As Sherlock and John search for clues, a mysterious series of deaths shocks London. Sherlock believes the victims are casualties of a gang war, but why are they always drained of blood? Can the powerful Volturi family provide Sherlock with the answers he needs to solve both cases? Sherlock/Twilight AU cross-over.
1. The Locked Room

_I do not own Sherlock or Twilight and have no intention of profiting from this story._

_This story picks up around the beginning of the second season of Sherlock, after the incident with Moriarty but before the Irene Adler case. _

_Contains some slash themes but rated M mostly for descriptions of violence._

* * *

John had just started to feel like life were getting back to normal. Well, normal-ish. Normal if you were always doing completely abnormal things. Perhaps he should stop using the word normal.

It had become routine anyway, and no one was trying to kill them so that was a plus. Of course, Moriarty was still out there, still hating Sherlock, but John had gradually stopped looking over his shoulder, stopped waking up a cold sweat thinking he felt the red lights of a sniper's rifle on his chest.

The new case had seemed the usual thing. Interesting enough to get Sherlock out of the flat. A man had been found dead in an empty room in an empty building, the room had been locked from the inside and the murder discovered by some young people looking for a place to sleep for the night. Right, good, something for the blog definitely.

Except it wasn't usual, or normal, because the man lying on the floor in front of them was Moriarty.

"Suicide?" asked Lestrade in a despairing manner.

Sherlock practically snarled at him, "His neck is broken, who breaks their own neck?"

"People who commit suicide."

Sherlock gestured around the room, "Where's the rope then? Or a necktie at least? Who hangs themselves and then neatly disposes of the means?!"

John was kneeling on the floor to examine the body. He reached out his gloved hand gingerly, telling himself over and over again that the man was dead. Moriarty wasn't going to harm them anymore. He closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath before finally touching the cold skin.

"He wasn't hanged," he said quietly, and the other two stopped talking to listen to him. Sherlock came over quickly and crouched next to John, looking intently at him for the answer.

"His neck was snapped," Sherlock prompted when John didn't immediately continue.

"There are no marks on his skin, whoever broke his neck didn't need to use a lot of force, not enough to bruise." John broke off, trying to imagine the strength that would take.

"I don't get it," said Lestrade. "Who sets up a locked room murder and doesn't even try to make it look like suicide? What's the point?"

"Shut up," said Sherlock, pressing his palms together in front of his face and trying to focus his thoughts.

John stood and went back to Lestrade. From this vantage point in the room, Sherlock looked as though he were mourning over his fallen enemy.

"What about the writing?" whispered Lestrade to John.

"It's blood of course," said Sherlock, his voice deep and careful now. "Moriarty's blood."

"How do you know that?" asked John, surprised. "He's not bleeding anywhere."

"That's beside the point, it's a message, written in his blood, in fact the whole thing is a message."

John had already taken some pictures of the message, written in neat block letters on the floor in front of the body: "NOT HERE." The medium was obviously dried blood but it was also true there was no blood anywhere else in the room or on the body.

"A message for whom?" asked Lestrade, eyes widening. "You?"

"Of course not," said Sherlock, leaping to his feet in a single fluid movement, "if it were, I would understand it."

* * *

"What am I looking at?" asked John. On the slab in front of him, Moriarty's body looked smaller than he remembered, almost sad, with all the seething, blazing life drained out of it.

Sherlock's gaze darted excitedly from the body to John and back again. "Don't you see?"

John rolled his eyes, "Obviously not. Enlighten me."

Sherlock jabbed his finger at Moriarty's right wrist.

"I don't get it."

"Look!"

Sighing, John leaned over and examined the wrist. It looked normal enough except for the small patch of unusually smooth skin over the pulse.

"A scar, maybe." he said, puzzled, it looked very strange.

"More than that!" Sherlock ran back to his equipment and stared excitedly through his microscope. "That new skin isn't the result of a wound being healed. He was cut, that's how the blood got on the floor, and then the wound was sealed, artificially!"

"With what?" John searched his memory for possible substances that could have been used.

"Venom!"

"Like snake venom?"

"Like no venom that exists," breathed Sherlock, and then actually hopped up and down in glee. John couldn't help but smile.

They were interrupted by Lestrade, and two other men, the appearance of whom made Sherlock immediately quiet down and look away pointedly, as though not wanting to be disturbed.

"John, Sherlock, these men are from Interpol, Agents Vladimir and Stefan. Gentleman, may I present John Watson and Sherlock Holmes."

John shook their hands politely. "Must be a bit nippy out there, eh?" He said to be friendly.

"What?" the taller, darker, of the two glared at him suspiciously.

John fidgeted, "Your hands are cold, the temperature must be dropping out there."

"Oh, right," the man eased back a little but his blonde companion, so pale that he was almost an albino, gave John a predatory look that made him back away to the other side of the slab.

The two men were making John feel downright creeped out now. There was definitely something off about them despite their flashy suits, and Sherlock wasn't helping, giving curt replies to Lestrade's queries and ignoring the newcomers altogether.

John breathed a sigh of relief when the three of them finally left.

"Why were you so rude to them, Sherlock?"

"Because they were the intended recipients of the message and I didn't feel like helping them."

"Interpol agents?"

"Of course they weren't _Interpol_ agents, wrong suits, wrong shoes, wrong haircuts."

"Why didn't you warn Lestrade then?"

"They don't care about him." Sherlock was typing furiously into his laptop. "And another thing," he looked up suddenly and frowned.

"Yes?"

"They were pretending to breathe." Sherlock went back to typing.

"Sorry, what? How can someone pretend to breathe?"

"Oh all right," said Sherlock, exasperated. "Go ahead and split hairs. They were pretending to _need_ to breath."

John debated questioning further, then shrugged and gave up. "Do you think they understood the message?"

"Yes. I don't think they were expecting it though."

"Oh, right, so an unexpected message from an anonymous source delivered through a locked room murder made not to look like a suicide complete with a message written in the victim's blood, and the victim's only wound has been sealed with something that isn't snake venom. Good, yes, seems normal enough."


	2. Vampires of London

_Warning: disturbing imagery_

* * *

The silence of the luxurious and spacious office was broken by the sound of voices in the hall. The doors opened and the three men entered laughing together.

Aro Volturi collapsed onto one of the antique sofas, chuckling gleefully.

"The look on his face…." Caius gasped, trying to catch his breath. He settled on the sofa, throwing his long legs over Aro's lap with the casual affection of a much loved younger brother.

"Why you must be a mind reader, Mr. Volturi," said Marcus, imitating a well-educated politician's smooth, rich tone of voice with eerie accuracy.

Aro covered his eyes, "Oh god, don't, you'll start me off again."

Caius deepened his voice to the same plummy depth, "Mr. Volturi, this must be the secret of your success. Can you predict the future as well?"

Aro threw his head back and laughed, a high, erratic, infectious sound that made Caius break off his impression, grinning.

"Aro…." the tense rasp of Marcus's voice interrupted them and they looked up, startled. He had been glancing out the wide office windows, opaque and black at this time of night. Something about the way he was standing there now sent a current of fear through Aro's body.

"Marcus? What is it?" Aro stood and came to join his brother at the window, Caius following.

"There," said Marcus, his deep voice strained.

Aro, standing between his brothers, looked out into the darkness. His face filled with a kind of wondering terror, his eyes widened and his lips parted, but he did not speak.

Marcus appeared to be paralyzed with sadness.

"What is it?" demanded Caius, his own shock quickly turning to a white hot anger.

Aro collected himself, his jaw tightening. "It is a declaration of war," he said with soft menace.

Marcus abruptly turned from the window, calling out urgently, "Didyme, Didyme, where are you?!"

A young woman appeared in the doorway in a blur of motion. "I'm here, what's happened…?" Her voice became muffled as her husband caught her up and enclosed her in a protective embrace.

Caius moved away from the window, calling for whichever members of the guard were within hearing.

Aro looked out for a moment more, his expression stern and grim. Then he snapped the heavy brocade curtains shut, blocking out the night.

* * *

A very tall boy with long brown hair wearing a posh school uniform.

A short girl with a lot of dark hair, skin-tight jeans and hoodie.

Another boy, long blond hair and expensive torn jeans.

The bodies were arranged casually on their backs in the grassy park, their eyes closed, as though the three victims had fallen asleep under the stars and never woken up. They were absurdly young to be dead, the girl no more than fifteen at the most, the two boys only a year or two older.

Sherlock stood back to let John examine the bodies first, taking careful note of everything with quick, identifying glances.

"According to the CCTV cameras, the bodies were placed here at 2:43 am," said Lestrade.

"No one brought them." said Sherlock. "Or at least, no one you could see."

"How the hell can you tell that?" asked Lestrade.

"You just said 'the bodies' as though they moved themselves. What else?"

"Nothing. At 25 seconds after 2:43, the park was empty. At 26 seconds after, there were the bodies."

"The cameras and film weren't tampered with," said Sherlock. It wasn't a question and Lestrade didn't answer. He was watching John who had finished his examination and was now just looking at the bodies with a withdrawn and troubled expression.

"They've been drained completely of blood, and there are no visible wounds, injuries, or even bruising," Sherlock's deep, acid voice cut through John's thoughts.

"Their necks aren't broken," said John, and put his hand over his mouth. Young victims always troubled him more than usual and there was something so calculated about the murder scene that he felt a little sick.

"Why do you say that?" asked Lestrade, puzzled.

"Blood missing, no wounds, same as Moriarty, keep up Lestrade, try not to be as dense as you usually are," said Sherlock, crouching down next to John. "But it's not the same, not the same at all. Different killers entirely." He pulled out his pocket magnifying glass and began taking darting, examining closer looks at the bodies. He paused at each, finding what he wanted, brushing his gloved fingers over an almost undetectable smooth patch on each victim's neck, just over their carotid artery.

"Sealed with venom," he whispered.

"Are you sure?" John asked, keeping his voice low.

Sherlock nodded, and stood up quickly. "It's another message," he announced. "Different writer, different audience, same conversation."

"You mean because these people were killed in a less brutal way?" asked John, rising to his feet.

"The opposite, Moriarty was killed instantly, these people were killed slowly, they were likely conscious for quite some time while their blood was drained. The first message was brief, virtually painless, designed to warn. This one is extensive, brutal, designed to invoke fear in its recipient."

"So these poor kids were involved with whoever killed Moriarty?" asked Lestrade.

"No, completely innocent bystanders. They didn't even know each other. They were killed in three different parts of London last night and brought here afterward." Sherlock pointed to each in turn, "Belgravia, Notting Hill, Highgate."

"There's nothing written in blood this time," said John, he was gazing at the bodies again, something at the back of his mind that he couldn't understand yet.

"That's because the message is written with the bodies themselves this time."

"They're so…." John broke off, uncertain.

"Young, vulnerable, lonely, dead?" Sherlock rattled off.

"Loved," said John automatically. He squinted at the bodies, trying to understand why that word was so definite in his mind.

"Yes…" breathed Sherlock, he gripped John's shoulder. "You've got it, you and your average mind. You can see it in their faces, their clothes, their appearance, all of them were beloved children, valued by their families….." Sherlock paused and then almost hissed, "Families, that's the message, 'we're going to kill your family'."

"What, so it's some kind of vendetta?" asked John.

"Even better, a war." said Sherlock firmly with the tone of excitement in his voice that always both thrilled and disturbed John. The excitement of the chase.

Sherlock turned away from the bodies, eagerly scanning the surrounding buildings in a predatory sort of way. "Moriarty was hidden in such a way that I would deliver the message, he was specifically prepared for me to act as go-between, an act of distancing from the sender to the receiver. This message is much more direct, it was placed here in this precise place at that precise time last night for the intended recipient to see immediately. Now who would that be? There!" He pointed to a building directly across from the park, a stately old edifice turned into an upscale office building.

"You're saying someone looked out one of those windows last night and saw this?" Lestrade asked incredulously. "But it's too far away, and the park wasn't well lit, you probably couldn't see anything from that distance at night."

Sherlock whirled on Lestrade, his long coat sweeping around him. "Show me the CCTV footage," he said, breathless and eager.

Not for the first time, John hoped fervently that Sherlock would reach the end of the puzzle before anyone else had to die.


	3. Secrets and Lies

"Again," said Sherlock sharply.

The police sergeant rewound the CCTV footage half a second and replayed. John felt as though he were watching an elaborate magic trick. One moment the park was empty, the next moment three bodies lay on the ground. Empty. Bodies. Empty. Bodies. They must have watched it a hundred times now.

"Let it keep going," Sherlock leaned forward, staring intently at the grainy image on the screen.

A minute or so further in, he abruptly reached over the sergeant's shoulder and froze the screen himself.

"There."

John and Lestrade leaned in, squinting. Sherlock's finger hovered just below a faint pinprick of light. An open window in the office building Sherlock had pointed out.

Sherlock tapped a key and the film continued. John watched with his face inches from the screen, feeling like the impending victim of a practical joke on Youtube.

"There!" Sherlock cried in triumph, freezing the screen again.

"What am I supposed to have just seen?"

Sherlock groaned in annoyance. "Look!" he pointed again. And John saw it, the spot of light from the window had disappeared. Someone had closed the curtains.

"That's it?" John asked in disbelief.

"That building is owned by an investment bank, the Volturi Group," said Lestrade.

"Isn't that run by an Italian family?" asked John. "Is this some kind of mob thing then?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Don't be absurd," he said dismissively. "They make their money the old fashioned way, by ruthlessly exploiting financial markets." He swung around on Lestrade. "You can check the CCTV footage of the building if you want to. Someone looked out that window at precisely the moment it was assumed that they would, and they didn't like what they saw. Not at all."

* * *

At the Volturi Group offices, Sherlock managed to talk a front desk receptionist into letting them upstairs to see the management.

A secretary so sleek and sophisticated that she might as well have been gilded in gold met them when they stepped off the elevator.

"You are with the police?" she asked politely but disbelievingly.

A man in a pinstriped suit was lounging nearby reading his smartphone and ignoring them, but John got the distinct impression he would personally throw them out the window if they did anything suspicious.

"I'm a consulting detective with the police and this is my assistant," Sherlock responded smoothly. "We need to speak with your employers on urgent police business."

"Do you have a card? No? Please wait." She disappeared behind an ornate set of double doors, presumably leading into the inner offices.

They were kept waiting a good twenty minutes. Sherlock went into one of his thinking spells, staring off into space and rotating his phone over and over. John amused himself looking around at all the 18th century (17th century?) paintings on the walls and then resorted to drumming his fingers on the expensive antechamber chair arm.

A clicking of stiletto heels woke Sherlock from his trance and they stood up expectantly. The secretary carefully opened the double doors and stepped through, followed by a man dressed in an elegant slim-fitting black suit. Judging from the secretary's smugly deferential attitude, this was actually a member of the Volturi family, not simply a supervising manager.

The man approached them with enthusiastic geniality, his hands outstretched in greeting. "Sherlock Holmes and John Watson! You have no idea what a pleasure this is, I am such a fan of yours!" He reached out and enfolded John's nearest hand in both of his cool, slender hands. "I'm Aro Volturi, welcome, welcome, what a lovely surprise!"

John smiled back warmly. He wasn't attracted to men very often, not enough to personally consider himself actually bisexual, but when he was, his crushes always had one thing in common - being completely, ridiculously out of his league.

Aro Volturi was no exception. Besides being the head of a powerful Italian financial family, and from what John understood, a major stakeholder in the British economy, he was absolutely, uniquely, gorgeous. Large dark eyes, long sleek black hair neatly pulled back from his face, a lovely nose, dazzling smile, trim attractive figure. John felt like an idiot just being in the same room with him. He also felt overwhelmingly happy, but that was because he was an idiot.

Aro's smile deepened, he pressed John's hand and released it, turning to greet Sherlock. Sherlock, who had been watching Aro and John with narrowed eyes, put his hands behind him and kept them there.

"Please forgive my dis-courteousness," he said apologetically when Aro held out his hands, "I'm afraid I'm a little contagious at the moment." He sniffed as though in explanation. John looked at him sharply but kept quiet.

"Of course, I completely understand," said Aro graciously. He clasped his hands together. "Now, how may I be of service to you?"

"We're consulting with the police on the triple murder which occurred in the neighborhood last night."

Aro's wide smile shifted to a look of deep concern. "Yes, I heard about that. What a terrible waste. We were all very saddened by the news. Do you have any leads?"

Sherlock smiled faintly, "We're working on a few. It's such a pity, you must be too far away from the park to have seen anything."

"Oh yes, my brothers and I were actually looking out the window at one point last night and of course we couldn't see anything past the street lights. The park is not well lit as you know. I've always felt it was a bit of a safety risk for the community." He sighed and shrugged a little as if to say, 'well, too late now.'

John looked at Sherlock for his reaction and saw that his friend had the slightly pompous expression he assumed when talking to an amusing lier.

The double doors opened again, revealing a young man in a shiny grey suit and shoulder-length white blond hair, who glared at the visitors and then walked forward to Aro. He looked about nineteen, but didn't seem to be displaying the usual deference an entry-level employee would have.

"Ahh," said Aro pleasantly, "Gentleman, may I introduce my brother Caius."

John looked back and forth between Aro and Caius, tried to find a family resemblance, and failed completely, except perhaps in how pale they were.

Caius nodded curtly to John and Sherlock, then pointedly turned his back on them to whisper in Aro's ear. Aro nodded, pressed Caius' shoulder briefly, and folded his hands apologetically.

"I am so sorry, but I have some rather urgent business to attend to. If you have any further questions, please let Gianna know." He waved the secretary forward, gave them another dazzling smile, and left the room with his brother. Leaving Sherlock looking intently after them and John inwardly reminding himself that getting a crush on someone you had only known for a couple of minutes was perhaps the stupidest thing he could think of.

* * *

Outside, Sherlock crossed the street to the park, trailed thoughtfully by John. Empty now of both victims and police, the area looked peaceful, even idyllic. Sherlock stopped in the middle of the former crime scene and gazed at the ground fixedly. John could almost hear his brain whirring.

"Those two fake Interpol agents," John finally said, breaking the silence. "You thought they were the recipients of the Moriarty message, do you think they killed those teenagers?"

Sherlock raised his head, tilting it back to look up at the sky. "Or someone who works for them."

"Then shouldn't you tell Lestrade?!" asked John exasperated.

"He won't be able to find them again."

"He could at least try!"

Sherlock turned around, his voice low and precise. "Lestrade won't be able to find them again because they're dead."

"What? When? How do you know this?"

"They were already dead when we met them."

"What?!"

"You were there. Very pale skin, cold hands. They had no pulse, probably don't have blood as we know it. That would explain how pale they are. Now if you hadn't been swooning over Aro Volturi like a love-sick schoolgirl, you would have also noticed a certain resemblance."

Of course. John slumped a little. "His hands were cold, he and his brother, their skin was almost completely white. What are you saying, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at John thoughtfully, wondering if his mind could comprehend what he was about to say. "John, I don't believe in the supernatural, but it's entirely possible that this planet might contain at least one other highly intelligent form of life. That, for the most part, prefers to keep its existence a secret…."

Something that John hadn't understood came back to him. "Why wouldn't you shake his hand?"

"Because when he touched you, he knew everything about you."

"Like the way you figure everything out about a person just by looking them?"

"No, I deduce information. He knew. Everything."

John shivered, then flushed with embarrassment. Sherlock's mouth quirked in amusement. He patted John on the back. "Yes, everything."


	4. Threats and Accusations

_Warning: some minor disturbing imagery._

* * *

They ended up back at the flat. Sherlock sitting on the sofa with his palms pressed together under his chin, thinking in silence. John looking out the window at the street below.

Everything seemed so normal. Everyone going about their business as usual. Cabs, cars, people walking, the air and the grey overcast sky, the buildings and the pavement and the road. All just the same as before. So why did John feel as though he were looking at a completely different world altogether?

Another species. Human and yet not human. Alive and dead at the same time.

And the venom sealing the wounds on the victims' arteries, what the hell was it with the venom? And the blood, drained from the bodies, Moriarty and those poor kids. Who does that? Who the hell does that?

_What_ does that?

"Oh god," whispered John. He felt suddenly drained of energy as an almost paralyzing fear swept over him.

"Yes," said Sherlock. "I've come to much the same conclusion. Although I'm sure with less lurid imagery than you're thinking of right now."

John turned away from the window with an expression of shock. "But they don't exist!"

"They _do_ exist, you should know. You've seen them, talked to them, touched them." Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at John. "Even fancied them."

"Shut up." John heaved a deep breath. God, his heart was going full speed. "Vampires?!"

"That would be the common name for them."

"Why aren't we panicking?"

"Because we're still alive."

"How is that even an answer?!"

"Oh stop being so melodramatic." Sherlock got up and started pacing.

John gesticulated wildly. "You're saying vampires exist and I'm being melodramatic?!"

"They're fighting their own turf war over London, we're not important enough to worry about," said Sherlock. "Or we'd already have been silenced."

"You're saying they know we know? Already?"

"If they know my reputation then they knew I was bound to put it together. But it was a calculated risk, they wanted me involved. I'm always dealing with strange crimes and we've had a run-in with Moriarty already, that's why the first message was set up to look like a locked room murder. I would get called in, not be able to solve it, something would get in the press, our two friends who aren't from Interpol would find out but there wouldn't be too much scrutiny because it's just another bizarre case associated with Sherlock Holmes. Want to hide something strange? Hide it in plain sight. On your blog, for instance."

"Hold on, what about my blog?"

"You post cases I can't solve on your blog, to make me sound more 'human'. Blogging about Moriarty's murder blended right in. Made it look almost ordinary."

"Well I wouldn't go that far." John was beginning to calm down now, he always felt a bit better when Sherlock left off his long thinking silences and became vocal again. "So the men who aren't from Interpol heard about the murder and came to see for themselves at the morgue. Message received."

"Exactly. And what did they get? A warning to leave London. A warning they evidently opted not to take." Sherlock pressed his hands against his head. "Think, think, it's more than that. Why did Moriarty have to die? Was he helping the recipients of the message? Was he important to them? Their contact in London?"

"Wait, you said the second message was meant for the Volturi group….so the Volturi family killed Moriarty and used us to help deliver the message?"

"Oh god you're slow! Yes, of course. Because Aro Volturi is such a huge fan of your blog."

John couldn't help feeling a little pleased at the thought. Then shook the feeling off as being completely inappropriate considering the circumstances.

"We have to warn people, Sherlock."

"That's the last thing we should do."

"But if this is a turf war, aren't there going to be more victims? People need to be alert, protect themselves. We should bring the army in…."

"Listen to me, John, listen very carefully," interrupted Sherlock, turning sharply on John and towering over him. "If we notify any of the authorities, _they_ will know, and many more people will die as a result, because _they_ will do anything to remain hidden."

John looked defiantly back at Sherlock's intense expression. "So we just sit tight and do nothing? While blood-sucking monsters kill innocent civilians?"

"Of course not," said Sherlock, and John could hear the barely-restrained excitement in his voice. "We offer our assistance in ending this conflict."

"Help the vampires?" John asked incredulously.

"Help the Volturi. They're the peacekeepers here, obviously."

"Well they're not doing a very good job of it so far."

"That's because they don't know what they're fighting against yet."

"And you do?"

"I have absolutely no idea." Sherlock grinned suddenly, enthusiasm overcoming his desire to appear cool and above it all. "It's a complete mystery!"

They quieted suddenly, hearing footsteps racing up the stairs, then relaxed when Lestrade entered, out of breath.

"There's been another one," he said. "Same method."

Sherlock and John exchanged glances. One excited, the other anxious and just a little reproachful.

* * *

The woman had been beautiful, in a sharp, almost dangerous way. The body was slumped on the floor and propped up against one of the ornate sofas in the elegant and pristine townhouse sitting room.

Broken neck. The body drained of blood but no visible wound until Sherlock leaned in and twitched aside the woman's collar to reveal the small incision in her neck, now smoothed over with that same strange seal of venom.

Sherlock stepped back, his eyes flickering over the scene.

"It's bad enough about the kids," said Lestrade. "It's all over the press now, you know. Everyone's demanding answers, and just when I'm trying to provide them, this happens. By the way," he turned to Sherlock. "What about the Volturi Group? Did you get anywhere with them?"

"Dead end," Sherlock said shortly.

John suppressed a small grin.

"Don't giggle, it's a crime scene," murmured Sherlock.

"Her name is Irene Adler," said Lestrade. "Professional dominatrix, would you believe?"

"No surprise there," said Sherlock caustically. "Everything about this place screams power play." He scrutinized the victim's face, then stood up and looked behind him.

"What is it?" asked John.

"She was looking at something before she died, something important to her that was about to be taken away." Sherlock moved towards the mantlepiece carefully. "Allowing for the angle of her neck, it should be right…here." He placed both hands under the mantlepiece and pressed. The ornate mirror above it slid upward to reveal a hidden safe. Sherlock leaned in and examined the keypad, then froze.

"Sherlock?" John came closer.

Sherlock let out his breath in a long sigh. "_Interesting_."

He reached out and carefully lifted the front of the safe off the wall. It came away cleanly. John could see the breakage line on the safe front and how it had rested together with the safe itself, so finely and gently broken that the whole thing had remained practically intact.

"What the hell?" exclaimed Lestrade.

John stared, breathing hard. He could tell right away that the safe hadn't been cut into, it had been snapped apart. Like Irene Adler's neck.

Sherlock placed the piece on the floor and then felt around the inside of the safe. "Clean," he said. "They took what they came for."

"And what did they come for?" asked Lestrade.

"No idea," said Sherlock, stripping off his gloves. "Come on," he motioned to John.

"That's it?" exclaimed Lestrade, hurrying after them as they left the room. "Don't you have any theories?"

"Not yet," said Sherlock. "We'll be in touch."

"What? John?" Lestrade appealed as they reached the front steps of the townhouse.

"I'm sorry," John said apologetically, "he's, well, you know." Then he had to run to catch up with Sherlock's long strides.

"What did this message mean?"

"Nothing, it wasn't a message."

"But, the blood loss..."

"It's a murder plain and simple, designed to blend in with other recent activities. It was made to look like the same method as the teenagers but the killer couldn't quite bring himself to attain that same level of cruelty, hence the broken neck administered before the blood was removed."

"You mean, like Moriarty?"

"Precisely, it's undoubtedly your boyfriend's handiwork again."

"Sherlock, could you not...keep doing that?"

"Sorry, couldn't resist." Sherlock grinned and John glared at him.

Just then Sherlock's phone chirruped and he pulled it out. "Text from Lestrade," he said, and then stopped suddenly.

"What?"

"We need to go to the morgue. Apparently the death of Irene Adler did send a message after all. There's already been a reply."

* * *

Molly Hooper pulled the sheet back carefully, revealing the head and shoulders of a young woman with disheveled hair and streaked makeup. It took John a moment to recognize the polished and sophisticated executive secretary of the Volturi Group.

"It's Gianna…." he said. "But we just saw her earlier today. What happened?"

"Yes, well, she's lost quite a lot of blood," said Molly. "And then someone put her on one of the lions around Nelson's Column. Um, over the paws." She imitated the lion's pose, arms outstretched.

Sherlock said nothing, bending over the body with his pocket magnifying glass to examine the patch of sealed up skin on the woman's neck. He sighed and straightened, resting his hands on the edges of the slab.

"This is getting tedious," he said.

"What does it mean?" asked John.

"That they're very, very annoying people who don't know what they've got so they're making a big show of nothing. If they actually had something, they'd get on with it but instead we get these silly melodramatic spectacles."

They all looked up at the sound of footsteps approaching and Lestrade entered with a dark-haired man in an elegant black suit and overcoat.

John swallowed hard and moved around to the opposite side of the slab.

Aro Volturi.

"Mr. Volturi is here to identify the victim," said Lestrade.

Aro nodded to John and Sherlock who stood back politely. He looked gravely serious, not at all like their genial host of the morning. He walked up to the slab somberly. Both Sherlock and John noticed his right hand brush across Molly's hand as he stepped past her. Sherlock hissed a little, as though restraining himself from warning Molly.

"No damage to the body, as you can see," said Lestrade.

"Yes," said Aro quietly. "This is indeed Gianna Lombardi. My secretary." He leaned over the body and stroked the mussed hair gently. "Poor child," he said sadly and regretfully.

"Thank you, Mr. Volturi, I'm sorry for your loss," said Lestrade. His mobile started ringing and he turned away to answer it.

Molly drew the sheet back over the body and fiddled about with her equipment, hoping to catch Sherlock's attention, but he appeared distracted, putting on his coat and drawing up the collar.

Aro looked up and gave John a small, unsettlingly beautiful smile. John shivered but didn't look away, in the same manner that he would have faced down a gun pointed at his head. He forced himself to keep watching as Aro turned to walk in the direction of the doors. Sherlock moved quickly after him, catching up with him and partially blocking his path.

"Don't you think," said Sherlock in a low voice, "that this has gone on long enough?"

Aro gazed at him in silence, motionless, and Sherlock looked back with narrowed eyes. John hovered close behind Sherlock, watching the two of them size up each other's intentions, each in their own way.

"Yes," said Aro finally. "Come, I'll buy you a drink."

Sherlock smiled, the thin smile he always had when he was getting his own way.

Lestrade looked up from his phone call and gave John a questioning look. John shrugged his shoulders and shook his head in response, then followed Sherlock and Aro out of the room.

Obviously it was going to be a long night.


End file.
